When I visit my Dad at his house I make sure my brother comes over—as often as possible—so he can enjoy his share of negativity and shouting. I don’t want him to miss out on his heritage—or his future. My brother will go anywhere there is free food (happy hours at every restaurant in Orange County; a neighborhood potluck where he’s not a neighbor; a food distribution center in East Africa—if he could hitch a ride). When he comes over he always looks in the refrigerator. Have at that Costco four bean salad, bro!
My brother handles my Dad much better than I. He thinks my Dad’s high-volume talking, the torn and stained clothes he wears, the racial slurs, the constant grumpiness are no big deal. To him it’s funny when my Dad shouts about “big busted gals” in public.
That’s because my brother lacks the embarrassment gene. He could forget his underwear AND all his clothes and upon noticing his naked predicament would say, “Hmmm, whatever.” Once my brother found his clothes, they would pretty much look like my Dad’s. (How did I end up in a family that doesn’t like to shop or buy clothes? They cannot possibly be my tribe.)
The difference between my Dad’s wardrobe and my brother’s is that my Dad has been wearing the same clothes that he bought during the Carter Administration and my brother buys clothes from the Carter Administration at Goodwill (for $1-$2 per item).
It doesn’t matter how many nice clothes I have sent my Dad or brother over the years, I never see them wear any. I have given up. They don’t buy in to the philosophy that clothes make the man. But if you dressed Donald Trump like the singers from OutKast, New Yorkers wouldn’t buy in to his buildings either.
Deciding between taking my Dad out to dinner or eating in is a no-win decision. If we stay home to eat, there’s nothing to eat except the aforementioned bean menagerie. That means we have to make a trip to the grocery store. The only choice is a store called Gelson’s.
It’s the kind of market where you can purchase an organic chicken for $35 or a crystal champagne glass for $350. It’s the kind of market that sells fresh abalone, fine jewelry, and sterling silver photo frames. It’s the kind of place where no one cares about time or money. But they do care about loud-mouthed old guys bad-mouthing their store.
Every trip to Gelson’s with my dad is a trip. You know the drill. Hence, the restaurant alternative—where at least someone else does the cooking.
My brother wanted to eat at California Pizza Kitchen in Fashion Island. Fine with me. I told him to be on time so I wouldn’t have to sit there shouting back and forth with my Dad by myself.
Not to be. My brother was late. We were early. I selected a table in the far back of the restaurant. It’s one thing to have to yell during dinner among yourselves, but when people at nearby tables get subjected to the unruly conversation, it ruins their dinner. Not fair to them.
First, I immediately bought my Dad a beer. Maybe if he got tipsy he wouldn’t talk as much. Except he nursed the beer like it was a WWII ration. I chugged the Korbel.
I told my Dad when it came time to order he was not to scold the waiter about tomatoes, avocadoes, or any other food on the menu. I told him the waiter does not buy the food nor prepare it. If he had a problem with the food he should take it up with the manager. But I told him the manager wasn’t there. And he wasn’t coming back. Ever. Because we were there!
Second, I bought several appetizers for my Dad, thinking it would be hard to shout while eating. Not to be. Gobble, yell, gobble, yell. I tried to ignore him as I ate my salad.
My brother still hadn’t arrived but my Dad was ready for the main course. I ordered mahi mahi. My Dad ordered the barbqued chicken salad. The waiter asked him if he wanted avocadoes on it. Oh crap.
The tirade started—how bad restaurant avocadoes are, how they’re not ripe, how they’re picked too soon, why do you buy them, why do you serve them, don’t you know how terrible they taste—like green rubber, and on and on. The waiter looked at him, at me, at him—stunned. I yelled at my Dad to knock it off. (Gee, where did I learn that line?)
The young couple in the booth across from us looked queasy.
Finally my brother showed up. He was laughing, said he could hear my Dad at the front of the restaurant.
My dad hollered to my brother, “Toni won’t let me talk about N——s! Now she won’t let me talk about avocadoes!”
The young couple scrunched up in their booth, like taking cover from a nasty tornado. The people sitting at the table behind my Dad got up and moved—but not before they shot us a look that wilted my salad.
I had lost my appetite. My brother ate my fish. And my salad. And a pizza. He also wanted dessert—chocolate cake with banana cream filling. Fine with me except that my Dad, the retired dentist, started bellowing about the ravages of sugar—the same stuff we have heard since childhood. Yeah yeah yeah, Dad, we get it.
The evening ended with my Dad shouting at me, “I’m surprised you kept your figure. You know how gals get when they hit fifty. They fall apart. They look baaad. Look old. You don’t look so bad.”
Thanks, Dad. And for the cost of the check and the hefty tip I felt compelled to leave our beleaguered waiter for having to put up with us, I could have left my Dad home with the four-bean salad and gone to Gelson’s and bought the champagne glass.
The moral of the story: I figured out why I forgot my underpants and what I was trying to tell myself. You can’t go out if you’re not wearing underwear. So when you visit your Dad—stay inside!
